Hella Good
by ppieaui
Summary: Wally likes music ((slash warnings, glflash))


**title**: Hella Good

**rating**: some blend of r and nc-17

**coupling**: john/wally

**summary**: wally likes dancing.

**a.n**: i think wally likes dancing . . . ? perhaps.

You like music.

Listening to a good enough song can give you the same kind of high you get from running so fast the ground beneath your feet is a blurred mess and you might as well be flying.

Music flows into your head and down your spine and sets the rhythm of your breath, makes your body move and leaves you feeling weightless. You and the music, gravity can't even cut in.

'Course, there aren't very many _good_ songs these days. Nothing you can lay into and let it control the beating of your heart. Nothing that can hold your attention and not leave you feeling embarrassed for listening to (because Spice Up Your Life had such _nice_ tempo, even if prepubescent girls enjoy it, too). 

Correction, there are good songs. Just a shortage of clubs that are smart enough to play them.

This is where Bar Hopping becomes more of a skill than a hobby. 

You're an excellent Bar Hopper, not that you have much time to hone this talent. Super heroing always seems to shift to the top of your list.

Super heroing.

The moment you donned the costume, the moment you learned the real meaning of being a hero, you knew you'd never be able to _be_ anyone else. 

But sometimes. 

Sometimes you hate the rest of the league so much it makes you dizzy. Them with their angst and _first names_.

You barely ever get mad when they're there, but sometimes. You lay back and think about how you're always Flash even though you're _Wally_ and Princess is Diane to Batman and GL stopped being GL forever ago. But whatever, right? You're one of the only two members with a face mask.

Sometimes it hits you, when you're face to face with Superman or Wonder Woman and you can't feel any more stupid, and if they weren't all wearing spandex, you might die of embarrassment.

And _damn_ that stupid, annoying 'knowing' look the rest of the league shared when you announced your plans for the night and blowing off your invitations for them to do the same. That _oh-look-he's-going-through-that-faze-that-I-went-through-awwww_. Even J'onn, which was. Interesting. 

As if they were so much older.

They were just so much more boring.

But this is where music comes in and gently takes your anger away from clenching fists, handing you back the amusement you can't help but feel about Wonder Woman's current obsession with white chocolate and how Hawkgirl can laugh at herself when she trips and Superman's baffled look when his good-doing gets annoying and Batman's so, so rare smile and J'onn's honest affection for them all, and GL's . . . inherent GL-ness. 

You've learned that it's never really good to think that intensely about John while you're listening to music. Because then you start thinking about things that were done. Like that rushed, wild, insanespurofthemomentonetime kiss that you're beginning to think could've been imagined by how much it's been discussed by the two of you. The music grabs hold of all those thoughts you crams into the back of your mind and _pulls_ and it spills all over the place.

And now your thoughts were laden with him and you're off your high and suddenly the air in the bar seems so hot and heavy and it really is a very dirty place. Too crowded, no room to dance at all. You were all but out the door and onto the next pub on the strip when the baseline of the next song grabbed you by the scruff of the neck and _dragged_ you back out. 

_Thump thumpthumpthump thump, thump thump_

It feels like it shakes the floor and it moves you. You don't worry about looking good, you don't have to. The mixture of alcohol and natural overconfidence that _is_ your barhopping persona keeps you happy enough. Besides, nothing is going to stop you from dancing and you've seen people who might've been decent dancers get so caught up and nervous and they just end up looking jerky and stupid.

Looking jerky has never been a problem for you. You flow, you slide, you're like liquid. Nice song, you want to get it's name but you never remember and then there's a body and that's much, _much_ more important.

A soft, curvy female body and she's feeling the song, too.

Yeah. This is nice. Your hands find their way to swelled hips and even if she doesn't seem to think as much of the music as you do, it's good.

And then he's there and you don't even question whether or not you're being paranoid because.

You can tell. His eyes. On you.

You're already over your surprise that he came by the time you see him, but that doesn't stop you from being endlessly pleased.

John looks awkward in jeans and real life. His body is made for comic books and burning buildings. Or maybe that's just where you're used to seeing him. And anything that covers his chest without outlining his pecks is always a disappointment. But his loose shirt does nothing to hide his strength and people are giving him nervous looks and some space.

He looks more like a bouncer than a dancer, and the look on his face. He obviously wants the room, but he can't be pleased that he stands out so sorely. Next to Superman he almost looks small, but back in the land of mortals, he's larger than life and it's impossible for you to believe that anyone looks at him and doesn't think "Super Hero." 

He looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here and you can't help the smirk because he isn't anywhere but here. And the only logical reason is because of you. With less than a thought you're off the dance floor and in John's face.

John looks a bit startled to see you and you don't think anything of it because you move fast enough for startled to be a common expression for you to see, but even after greetings his eyes trace your face like he's never seen it before. Which he has. Just not in this light.

Because you look good when you sweat. You look good when you're happy. But most of all, you look good without two yellow bolts for ears. And that song is still so good _thump thumpthump thump thumpthumpthump_ and you might be regretting leaving the dance floor.

He can see your dilemma, he's amused. An indulgent sort of smile (why don't you mind it when it's from him?) and John is dragged onto the dance floor without much complaint but he makes you promise just one dance and a drink.

The crowd parts for the unusual pair you make, and for a moment you have enough space to dance with John but you're not _with_ John. But the music sweeps the rest of them soon enough and bodies are crashing into both of you, and you get closer and closer and you're dancing _with_ John and he doesn't seem to mind. He doesn't seem to mind so much that he almost seems to like it.

And that's. That's John's hand, and it's on your hip. It's not like it's anything, because you were just grinding a girl so hard you could tell the color of her underwear without having to look, but. That's John's _hand_ and it's on your _hip_. Your breath does not catch, but you had to concentrate to keep from flinching.

It's ridiculous that you almost jump when John's second hand falls onto the other side, and it's hard to keep from stiffening but you don't want him to stop. Stopping might make you cry and seeing a grown man cry isn't fun for more than a minute. 

John has huge hands-- like plates and one is almost enough to engulf your entire waist. He could easily maneuver you anyway he wanted but he's just feeling. Feeling you move.

You realize that he's managed to top you in this like he tops you in _everything_ and you don't even think he's trying this time and that's not fair, but then you decide that's why you. Like him so much. 

They color you the bold one, but you would never have the courage to press into John like John's pressing into you. Honesty breeds bravery and John's very, very honest. You've done worse, you've lived worse but his front pushing against your back feels like air. It feels like a different kind of music. It feels real. It feels like something new. Important. A thousand other words, but they all mean _John_.

You think that this should be sudden, something that should surprise you, as neither of you even made an attempt to discuss the rushed, wild, insanespurofthemomentonetime lip lock you shared, but you hadn't tried to explain it away either, so maybe this makes sense . . . ? Or maybe you were ready this entire time, just waiting for him to make a move. Or maybe you were something all along and this was just the first step. Either way, you're not going to fight it, not when it feels this good.

It occurs to you when John's hands start traveling to the front of your jeans, to the pockets. It occurs that he must've been looking for you, really looking, because you don't exactly stay in the same place for very long. You're not surprised that he managed to find you, but you're still impressed. 

You dance and dance and it's a blur. You're not sure how long you and John stayed on the floor, but it was definitely more than one song but there was no way you were going to put a stop to slow exploration of your skin and lewd movements without violent force.

A song that you think you hate enough to leave the bar for starts to play, but John doesn't seem as concerned with the music as you are. It's almost torture, to have that random, screeching sound invading your very being but still those wonderfully huge hands dipping into your pockets. You're torn and eventually just let your head fall onto John's absurdly wide shoulders and your arms find their way behind, gripping the back of John's neck and leaving your torso painfully open. You lean against him limply because you can't move to this noise. It's almost offensive.

It's like a surrender, maybe what he was waiting for because you can hear John's growl/hum/noise of pleasure at this and that's more than enough to make up for the senseless lyrics that are getting poured down your throat.

His movements are more determined now, he knows what he's doing and he knows what he wants from you.

You wouldn't mind continuing this on the dance floor if it weren't for that damn song, and you had a feeling John wouldn't either, if they weren't out in public. 

It's easy to ignore the stares as you leave the bar when John's gaze is so full of promise. Your flushed face feels neon, and how can anyone in the bar _not_ see it? But you were dancing, easy to write off. They can see how your hands are locked together, you're leaving the bar _together_. But it's so crowded, if you didn't have contact you could easily lose a friend. Your obvious arousal. His focus.

Easy to ignore the stares.

You break free of the bar's doorway and it's hot. It would be uncomfortable if you cared. But John's gotten it so your highest concern is his highest concern which involves getting you up against the wall and whimpering.

You don't get far, turning into a narrow alleyway between to bars and you can hear two frighteningly similar beats. Just different enough to be annoying.

You're up against a wall almost faster than you can keep up with, and that's saying something. Your legs wrap around his waist and you can't help but. Rubbing. Can't stop, but you're too hot to do anything but lay there and make little noises as he _pushes_ you against the brick wall and that hurts but you're tough and.

Rubbing of denim and denim, pushing it harder and harder together, as if that will force the barriers that separate skin away.

Sparks behind your eyes, your arms scrabbling wildly for purchase and they grab his shoulder's triumphantly. You find yourself rocking to the hypnotic beat that's thudding against the wall you're getting claimed against.

John follows this for a moment before it becomes too light, not hard enough.

You don't know what words you cry as he.

There. Hard. Hot.

You bite your lips bloody and he bites your neck.

You think it's a fair trade.

And the pressure's off. The sound of the zipper of your jeans lowering seems ludicrously noisy, did it echo? But then you don't care because. You're open. In the alleyway, you're open and John has you, he's holding you and you feel like you might not have another worry. Ever. If he would just start doing _something_.

You wonder if he knows you've done this before because it feels so different, so perfect, and it has to show on your face. How this is changed. Maybe it's just John. Maybe John can do this to a man. Maybe all John's lovers--

You have to stop that there because John actually _squeezed_ and that put an end to all thoughts. And you don't really want to think about all John's lovers anyway.

You force your eyes open and his request. Or demand. He's staring at you. His eyes. On you.

You shudder and he bends down your neck. Licks. 

_Squeezes_.

You can't help but wail your coming, throwing your head up against the brick wall.

By the time you're back down, a new song is beating against your forehead. You reached down to take care of any remaining problem of John's but he must've come when you. Oh.

You almost blush, and you would've if your body hadn't been in such a sluggish state of bliss.

John is curtaining your body with his own, one of those enormous hands moving up and down your thigh.

Soothing.

_Thump, thump thuda thump thumpthump_

You like music.

But you think you might like John more.


End file.
